


Counting

by Path



Category: Exalted
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Femdom, Sadism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Path/pseuds/Path
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One Traveller of a Shifting Path is counting the days until freedom. But his captor, the deathknight Weeping Raven Cast Aside, has other plans for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting

**Author's Note:**

> Path is my No Moon Lunar, and I just can't stop putting him in terrible, terrible situations.

I have been counting the days since I was brought here. I'm stripped of my hearthstones and the dead air of the Underworld gives me nothing to restore the spent power that got me here in the first place. I was just waiting, counting down for the mistress of this place to return, to find me a prisoner of her servants, and to kill me. I can't expect any less from her.

My wrists are bound to my neck, manacles and collar made as one. It holds me in more ways than one, feeling like a cage over my heart, through my limbs. I cannot shift, and escape these bonds. I have tried three times and ceased; I can't waste the motes. I know every stone here, but the Flaw-Finding Examination costs me too much... and I don't want to see it evaporate for nothing. But if I ever get free of this collar...

The handle turns, the door thrown open. One of my jailers, a gaunt creature of bone and stripped muscles, gestures in, and beyond, I can see the hints of another figure. "Bring him," says a voice- soft, female, a tone of implied command and complete control. She is gone by the time the hulking creation seizes the chain leading from my neck. It doesn't bother to unlock it, merely cracks the chain from the wall and begins walking. I stumble to my feet somehow and follow. Its legs are long and its strides immense; I am lucky to be as gangly as I am, or I would simply fall and let it drag me forcibly through the cold halls.

Finally it reaches its destination, a chamber in the depths of the fortress-palace-tomb. I am tossed forward, skidding on my knees and wrenching myself to balance with no arms to outstretch. A faint chuckle comes from an alcove before me.

"You are the Lunar Path," she says. It's not a question, but I answer all the same.

"Yes," I croak, clear my throat, and continue. "And you are the deathknight Raven."

In the shadows swathing the alcove, her figure bends forward from where she sits, the faintest hints of grey light touching her face. It is white, pale and bloodless, high cheekbones and arched eyebrows. A fall of sleek shining hair almost vanishes into the shadows entirely, it is so black. I cannot see her mouth. She is unmistakeably lovely, but in a still and perfect way. When she is motionless she is utterly so.

"You are familiar with me through our mutual friend, I am sure," she says quietly. "That is good. You must know a little of me, then, and my nature."

I say nothing. I would not speak favourably on her; on her deeds worse than any of Bone-Feather's, on her reverent cruelty and hatred I know from Mercy could drown the world. And it nearly has, time and time again, but for our efforts against her.

"And yet," she continues, unfazed by my silence, "you have come here yourself. Surely you knew I would have precautions in place? Or perhaps you thought yourself above them. No matter; you have fallen to them and now you are mine." She stands, and emerges from her alcove. She is quite tall; I have never met her in person before. She wears trousers instead of skirts, and a corset tight over her shirt. It shows off no curves, but her willowy grace is somewhat fascinating all the same. Her lips are a vivid red; it might be sensual and seductive on any other woman, but I get the unnerving impression that the stain is blood, and not hers. She steps slowly towards me in knee-high boots. The heels are strong, practical and meant for riding, though I do not expect it was a horse who felt them. She stares at me impassively. I'm not sure her eyes have colour. She seems all black and white, but for that smear of virulent red.

"And what will I do with you?" she asks, and this time, it is a question.

"I expect you'll kill me, probably slowly," I reply. "You'll guarantee I return as a ghost, somehow, and continue to torment me then."

"Why?" she asks.

I already know. I was shown years ago, a vision of my death from a Sidereal friend, the only time that, until now, I'd seen the Weeping Raven face to face. I still remember, perfectly, the death I went through then because of her jealousy. "Mercy," I say.

"Mercy," she says, and I could only dream that she planned on granting it. "Yes. It is mostly Mercy. But all the same..." she pauses, and stares at me again, utterly emotionless and still. Her lip quirks faintly; it is nothing like a smile, perhaps a wraith of one. "I am not so wealthy in weaponry that I can turn down one handed to me." She closes the distance between us, takes my chain in her fingers. The long gloves are familiar; I cannot Count to recall them, but I know all the same. They were the Lover's, once, and I remember foot-long talons raking from them. I hold very still.

She wraps it once around her silk glove and pulls. I am off-balance immediately, nearly crashing to the floor, but she merely pulls again and returns me to my knees. She walks softly, strolling behind me. I cannot turn my head. "So I will make use of every knife to fall into my hands, and ensure it is sharpened and oiled before I use it against its master," she says. She gives the chain a tug, and I struggle a moment before I fall backwards. On my back, I can see her again, slipping my chain over a hook and locking it.

With a look, the gaunt guard leaves.

Raven pulls a chair up before me. She takes a seat, still not-quite-smiling at me. With a gesture oddly hesitant despite its grace, she reaches out to me. The back of her hand, silk glove impossibly soft, grazes my cheek, barely stirring the feathers there. I take a sharp breath, keenly aware of both the feeling and the presence of those claws, lurking somewhere ready to strike. Again, she strokes my face. I feel nothing but her touch, for a minute, and then blossoming up inside me, overwhelming _wanting _. But it is not my own, and even the Outworld-Forsaking Stance cannot help me, as the motes are swallowed into my horrid collar. I wrench down on myself, swallow desire and reassert me inside her charm. With effort, I manage. I open my eyes wide, tilt my head as far as I can to look up at her.__

"What are you doing?" I ask her.

"I am taking Mercy," she says, and I realize her ploy. She wants him; I am not his only lover but I am nonetheless. If she thinks she can still use me against him (or against any number of people), she cannot have me be _Mercy's_ lover in that time. She is taking me away from him. And, in an odd way, her expression was doubly correct, for if I were a shred less useful to her, I would likely be dead already.

Her fingers stroke over my cheek again, twist to touch my lips and caress them. Then down, past the collar and my bound wrists, down my chest. She slips from her chair, on her knees as well in front of me. Her hands slip around me, her lithe body presses close to mine. Then sharp pain, lacing up my back in a half-dozen red-hot slices, and she pulls back with those terrifying claws extended. One hand returns to normal, pulls at my shirt, and slices similarly down the front, leaving agonizing trails behind them. They are not deep. They are just painful. My shirt hangs in shreds.

Then she is pushing me to the ground, straddling me, bending to my chest to lick long sweeps up my chest, tongue darting into the long lacerations as she adds my blood to the smear across her mouth. Despite the pain, her tongue, her hips caging mine, her slim body over me, all combine to make me arch beneath her. I am hardening, and I'm sure she can feel it as she's straddling me. And yes, she rises to a faint wisp of a smile, tears what's left of my shirt from me.

Then she reaches over, beneath her chair, and pulls from it a box. She opens it, still keeping me firmly down, and I can't see what's inside until she deliberately sets the contents down beside us. A small pot, lid secured. Another. A small bowl. A spoon, silver with bone inlay. A black-handled brush. She opens the first pot, and rocks a little forward, grinding against me and making my hips jump towards her. She doesn't seem to care, and taps the pot, sending a little ashy dirt into the bowl. She seals it again, sets it back in the box. The second pot, she opens, rocking against me again, but this time, it's golden lines of honey that trail into the bowl. She seals it without a drop lost, sets it too aside.

She takes up the brush, but does not dip it in the bowl. Instead she sets it to me. It follows the trails up my chest, welling still with new blood. The hair of the brush stings against the raw nerves, and I grit my teeth. Whenever it touches the cuts, my body freezes; whenever it touches another part of me my body aches. She collects a heavy brush of blood and swirls it into the pot, mixes briefly with the spoon, then dabs the brush in a second time. Then she focuses her attention back on me. "There," she breathes. "I'm ready now." Then her charm attacks me a second time. I can feel my cock swell to press against her through the front of my trousers, as my body strains for her touch. But I... I can't...

Somehow I suppress it again. I cannot count these reserves, but I know they are low. My mind reels from the effort it takes. Raven does not quite frown at me. "You are not being a very generous guest," she says. "The knife should not protest its purpose." With it comes another demand, this time a subtle suggestion to cease resisting her will. I throw it off too, feel my mind complain under the pressure.

She shakes her head. "At least stay still for me," she says. All too aware of her claws, I do.

She lowers the brush to my skin. It takes a minute for the first symbol to become evident. It is a bee, painted directly on my forearm where I can see it. The next is on my bare stomach. I cannot see it, but the strokes are all the same. Another bee. Then one below my left eye, on the cheek below my cheekfeathers, another behind my ear, another on my shoulder, my hip, and then she is ripping my trousers off with vicious claws that don't _quite_ avoid nicking me entirely. My ankle, my calf, the inside of my thigh, and I am arching my back now though the paint is cold on my skin and I know her necromancy will doom me. It is an unconscious reaction, drawn just from the sensation of it; I cannot resist art and I cannot resist tactile stimulation, and I cannot resist her.

Another seals my lips. My cock is jerking in the air as she pushes me to my side to paint my back. My neck, below my ponytail, my shoulder blade, my legs and the bottom of my feet, all embossed with orange sticky bees. Then finally, over my heart, something not a bee. I know it is Old Realm, and an ancient dialect. It is something about holding, but I cannot pull all the meaning from it by sensation alone, and by now I am wanting and cannot quite focus on the quirks of linguistics.

Then sound. Buzzing, low, starts below my audible range and slowly becomes overwhelming. The painted bees _writhe_ into me, and with horror for a second I imagine them burrowing. But they merely sink in the rest of the way, leaving nothing- not honey, not blood, not dirt, no saffron reminder of what has been done but just the knowledge and the faint remaining drone.

I want to ask. I know it was sorcery- necromancy, really. But as I open my mouth, two silk-clad fingers slip inside it, and Raven's black eyes appear, wide and open. That's when I feel the third, the last try for my will, and I have resistance, but I do not have enough. I cave. My body laces through with desire as surely as if she'd injected me with some drug made in my homeland, but a thousand times stronger. All I manage is a gasped "Oh, gods," and I am pushing myself against her slim frame.

"You'll be mine now," she says simply, "mine until death and mine after death. Your ghost will find me and serve me until I see fit to toss your sorry shade in the Void. And you'll thank me for it."

Her other hand has slipped down, stroking against my straining cock and sending a racing ecstasy through me. I cry out around her fingers and another urge strikes me. Thank her, thank her, thank her- I wrench down the last of my will on it and shove the compulsion aside. The silk glove tightens around me, my cock like steel in her hand.

I am on the edge, clenched and starving after what felt like hours of gentle rousing touches of brushes over my body. Her fingers push deep into my mouth, and her hand squeezes, and I give a sharp set of whimpering cries around her hand. Raven leans forward, black eyes locked on mine. I cannot resist another command, completely drained, utterly hers. And she gives one, her first of what I know will be many.

"Come," she says, and I do, immediately. My mind goes blank for long, long ages; my vision blacks out.

Finally, I drift to the surface, empty and open and dizzy. Raven is crouched over me, keys in hand. She pops one, then another manacle off, and then my collar. "For now," she says softly, "you will not leave here. " I won't. "Find me again, tonight," she says. "I have some further work to do." I will. "And then I will let you fly from my sleeve, knife, and I will not need to worry about you blocking my path anymore." No, she will not.

She strolls out, boots making sharp sounds against the stone. Naked and shivering and still wanting her, I curl into the wall and wait. I am already counting- counting the hours until she wants me again.


End file.
